Welcome, neighbors, come on in. There’s plenty of room for everyone, aside from God. He has no place inside this well-ventilated, open-concept embodiment of runaway capitalism.
What you see before you is my 14,000-square-foot testament to taste, triumph, and unrepentant hubris. A five-bed, six-bath new-construction McMansion with a gaping spiritual wound that can never truly heal.
Let’s start in the foyer, which doubles as a waterpark and triples as a shrine to me. The marble floors are hand-cut from an Italian quarry that geologists begged us not to touch. The chandelier? They found it inside a meteor already shaped like that.
I spared no expense. Especially not on humility.
Over here is the living room. I’ve actually never been in here before. Vaulted ceilings that touch the second heaven, twelve Corinthian columns (structurally unnecessary, spiritually confrontational), and a roaring fireplace powered by a small but persistent coal fire deep within the earth. Is it environmentally sound? No. But is it efficient? Not really.